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Chapter 20: Count Chocula?

They arrived in Westwood without a plan. Which, as far as Spike was concerned, was not necessarily the best situation. And now here he was in the car with Gunn watching the woman he loved walk away from him. She threw the courier bag over her shoulder and strode towards the school. Spike watched her disappear and then reappear as she slipped in and out of the pockets of shadows left by the campus lights. She arrived at the doors and he watched her pause. ‘Turn around,’ he begged silently. ‘Don’t go in, pet’.

Buffy turned and glanced back towards the car. She was too far for their eyes to meet, but Spike felt the connection. Then she put her head down and opening the heavy doors, she walked into the school.

“I’ve said it once, but feel I need to say it again, man,” Gunn said.

“Don’t.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know,” Spike said with a sigh. “But it doesn’t change the facts.”

“Then find a way to change the facts,” Gunn said simply.

Spike stared at the now empty walkway and wondered if it could ever be that simple.

***

“Take a look at this,” the professor said, his back to the room as he pointed to the large painting projected onto the screen. “One thing most paintings of St Michael have in common is the fact that the saint is in a position of power over the devil or the demon in question.”

Buffy quietly slipped through the backdoor and sat in one of the seats at the rear of the small lecture hall. She set her bag on the floor and placed her notebook on the desk. Then, unable to put it off any longer, she looked up.

“This position of power,” the professor explained, “implies a sense of good versus evil. Saint Michael represents all that is good, he is he ‘who is as God’; while the demon he is impaling represents all that is evil. Good vanquishing evil is a common theme in Renaissance paintings and this one, Saint Michael Vanquishing the Devil, by Raphael demonstrates this fully.”

Buffy’s breath caught. Angel looked…the same, but different. As she stared at him, trying to figure out what the difference was, she realized that it came down to blood. She’d never realized how much blood made a difference. The blood pumping through Angel’s body made his skin glow. It was supple and there was a softness to the edges of his jaw and chin that spoke of the frailties of human flesh. She could see the life in his face. He looked happy, content. Gone was the rigidity with which he’d always held himself. Gone was the frown and the brooding, glaring gazes and heavy forehead. He was smiling as he talked about the painting and as he moved around the classroom, there was a lightness to his step that had nothing to do with supernatural strength and everything to do with the fact that he was no longer weighed down by his guilt.

“Notice Saint Michael’s face,” Professor O’Neil said as he used a laser pointer to draw the students’ attention to the painting. “Note his beauty, implying that goodness and beauty are synonymous. But there is more to it than Michael’s physical beauty; his face is calm and serene as he slays the devil. He is filled with righteousness. Righteous because he has God on his side and the devil at the end of his weapon. At his feet.” He gestured to the demon. “What do you notice about the devil?”

He pointed to the young woman in the front row who raised her hand. “Yes, Claire?”

“He’s an angel too,” she replied.

Professor O’Neil nodded. “Lucifer was once, like Michael, one of God’s chosen ones. Implying perhaps that evil, like goodness, is within each of us, that it all has the same source.” He walked over to the screen and ran his fingers slowly over the devil’s arms and the smooth curve of his shoulders. “He is without armour, he has no protection,” he said softly, staring at the painting. “Defenseless. Almost as if, in the great battle between good and evil, the demon knows that good will always win, so why try and protect himself?”

Silence filled the small lecture hall. The students stared at the man at the front of the room as he got lost in his thoughts.

The silence stretched and finally one of the students cleared his throat.

“Umm… Professor O’Neil?”

The professor turned from the screen and smiled at the students. He went to the laptop and hit a button, bringing a second painting up on the screen. “Here we have another Raphael painting. Saint Michael is one of his earlier studies. Notice the similarities in the pose. But what do you notice about the devil this time?”

He pointed to a young man in the back row. “Paul?”

“It’s not a devil, it’s a dragon.”

The Professor shrugged. “Is there a difference?”

Buffy watched and listened in amazement as Angel led his students through various paintings of Saint Michael, drawing their attention to the differences, the similarities and always building on his theme of good vanquishing evil. But by the end of the lecture, it was apparent to everyone in the class that while their professor definitely celebrated good, he had a certain amount of empathy for the demons.

When the class was over the students gathered their belongings, talking amongst themselves as they left the room. A handful stayed behind and gathered around their teacher, chatting and asking him questions. As Buffy watched, she was reminded of her days at the college in Sunnydale. Had she ever been that enthusiastic about a subject? Had she ever wanted to stay after class and debate points with her teacher? And had any of her teachers ever responded with such warmth and enthusiasm to all the comments and questions?

“Hey, Teach, you joining us tonight? May I remind you that you bailed on us last week?” One student, a very tall young man, called out from the top of the stairs.

Professor O’Neil glanced up from the briefcase he was sliding papers into and grinned. “I know, I know. I’ll meet you guys there tonight.”

“Promise?” a young female student asked.

He nodded with a smile. “I promise.”

Buffy waited until the last student had filed out and then she made a pretense of gathering her papers. She still didn’t have a plan. She didn’t know what she was going to say. What she was going to do.

Would he, on some level, recognize her? How could he not? She asked herself. Why would he? A little voice inside mocked. He didn’t choose you over this life of his, why would he remember anything from the past he despised?

“Are you new? I didn’t get any new students on my list,” he said.

Buffy straightened quickly and stared. God… He was right there, in front of her, in flesh and blood. She wanted to reach out and touch his skin, feel its warmth and its softness; she wanted to feel his flesh give under the pressure of the touch of her hand.

“Uh, yeah, I just registered this morning. They’re still waiting for my transcripts,” she mumbled.

He smiled. “Where are you transferring from?”

“Berkley,” she blurted out and then wanted to curse.

His eyes brightened. “That’s where I went! What year are you in?”

“Umm, third?”

He frowned and she wondered miserably if she had blown it already. “Third year, eh? Have you taken any of Professor Eathorne’s classes? The man is a genius when it comes to the Renaissance period. You’d think he’d lived in Florence during that era.”

Quickly she shook her head. “No, that name doesn’t sound familiar.”

He held his hand out to shake hers. “Well, I’m Liam O’Neil. Welcome to UCLA.”

She reached out, the sweat pouring down her back in the artificially cool room. Her fingers trembled and she had to fight to keep her breath steady and even. There was a disconnect between the warm, strong hand that gripped hers and the face she was staring into. It seemed as if the world itself had shifted on its axle and was suddenly off kilter.

“Buffy Summers,” she whispered. “Nice to meet you.”

He frowned. “Buffy Summers. That’s an unusual name. And familiar.”

She tried to smile as her heart skipped a beat. “Yeah, it’s unusual. But I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

He tapped a finger to his temple. “I’m good with names and faces. If we have met then I’ll remember.” He gestured for her to precede him through the door and out of the classroom. “Some of the students meet at a local bar after class. Do you want to join us? It’d be a great way to meet the others in the class.”

Buffy found herself nodding. “Sure,” she said softly. “My ride’s probably waiting for me in the parking lot, but I’ll just let them know I’ll take a taxi home afterwards.”

Liam smiled. “Tell them to join us.” He tore a corner from a piece of paper pinned on a bulletin board and digging into his pocket, pulled out a pen. “Here, the place is called Paddy’s and it’s about five blocks from here, on the right. I’ll see you and your friends there.”

She took the paper from him and smiled feebly as he waved and walked away.

***

Spike let himself out of the car as Buffy approached. He tried to gauge her mood, tried to guess what she was thinking, feeling. She’d just seen her first love for the first time in years. Surely, Spike would be able to tell something from her face.

Stopping by the car Buffy looked up at him. There was a flush along her cheekbones and she looked bewildered and confused. Neither, as far as Spike was concerned, were good and he had to ask himself for the hundredth time, what was he looking for here? Didn’t he want Buffy and Angel to be back together, living happily ever after for their prescribed human lifespan?

“Well?” he asked. He smirked, curling his tongue behind his teeth. “Still a bleeding ponce I take it?”

“No. By the amount of attention he gets from his female students, I’d say he’s definitely not a ponce.”

Gunn poked his head out and asked the question Buffy wished Spike had asked. “Are you okay?”

“A little in shock I think. It’s – it’s very strange to see him. But to see him as a human, that takes some getting used to.”

Spike felt her words stab his heart. Human. Warm human flesh. Skin hot to the touch.

“Did you talk to him?” Gunn asked.

“Yeah.” She glanced between Spike and Gunn. “He’s invited me to a bar up the street to meet some of the students from the class. I said we’d go.”

Spike couldn’t do it. He couldn’t see him, couldn’t talk to him. There was no way he would be able to pretend to be something he wasn’t. Not in front of Angel. “Take her,” he murmured, glancing over at Gunn. “Go with her and please make sure she makes it back safely to the hotel.”

Buffy reached out as he turned away. “Where are you going?” she asked softly.

He looked down at her hand gripping his stone cold skin. “I’m going to go and kill something.” He tugged his arm from her grasp and took off into the night.

***

Spike hunted the streets of L.A., remembering the old days. He remembered Wesley and Fred, adorable Fred and then her counterpart, the blue and powerful Illyria. He moved swiftly through the darkened streets and alleys, seeking out the demons. He found them and he took them down with vicious, righteous abandon, relishing the hunt and the kill; loving the feeling of bringing a dark and dangerous demon to its knees and ridding the world of it.

It was almost as if, with every demon he killed, Spike was slaying his own demon, the demon he’d been, over and over again.

Finally, sensing the dawn, he hurried back to the hotel, exhausted and spent. With mere moments of night left, he slipped through the back door of the hotel and into its protective shadows.

“Spike?”

He stopped just outside his door and glanced down the darkened hallway. “Sam?”

She stepped from her room and strode to him. “Are you alright? I’ve been worried sick about you. When Gunn and Buffy got back and told us you’d gone hunting, I was pissed off that you’d gone without me. And then you didn’t come back and – Christ, Spike – the sun is up! Are you crazy?”

There was a genuine note of worry and concern in her voice and he couldn’t help but lap it up.

“Yeah, Sammy. I’m daft.” He opened his door and spying the bed, realized again how exhausted he was. Bed or shower? Glancing down at his dusty clothes, he spotted other mysterious substances and decided that a shower was definitely in order.

But first…

“What time did Buffy and Gunn get back?” he asked.

“Around midnight, they weren’t back late.”

Spike felt relief and then shook it off. It didn’t mean a thing that she hadn’t stayed out late. Falling in love with Angel all over again might take time, he told himself as he headed for the bathroom.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Sam asked him.

He glanced over his shoulder to where she leaned against the door, watching him. He could read the sleepless night on her face and he softened. Walking over to her, he gently ran a hand over her hair.

“Because I have to,” he said softly.

“You have to make her happy?” she asked angrily. “At the expense of your own happiness?”

“It’s what I do.”

“You’re an idiot,” she said, her tone softer this time.

“Don’t I know it,” he murmured. He grinned cockily, but the edges were a bit ragged. “Look at it this way; once she’s happily settled with Angel in the suburbs, I’m a free man.”

Her gaze travelled over his face, her blue eyes filled with sadness. “No. You’ll never be free of her until you die.”


“I’m going to take a shower,” he said shortly, not liking the turn of the conversation. “And then, then I’m going to sleep.” He walked away from her. “Good night and good bye. Leave me be.”

Although he thought he heard her mutter ‘bastard’ under her breath, he didn’t really care. When the door slammed shut, he sighed in relief and disappeared into the bathroom.

***

“Well?” Willow asked Buffy over their bowls of Captain Crunch.

“It was strange.”

“You don’t sound overwhelmed.”

Buffy took a mouthful of cereal and then stared down at the soggy contents of the bowl. “You know, I remember this tasting much better when I was a kid.”

“And you remember Angel being, oh I don’t know, more overwhelming when you were younger?”

“I so wasn’t going there, but since you’ve pointed it out, yeah. I’d have to say that Angel is much less Count Chocula and much more Cheerios. Not that there’s anything wrong with Cheerios! I enjoy Cheerios.”

“But you don’t want Cheerios every day for the rest of your life.”

“I want Count Chocula for the rest of my life,” Buffy whispered. “But the rest of my life and the rest of Count Chocula’s life are two very different things.”

“Then you finally understand where Spike is coming from,” Willow stated.

“I get it. As soon as I saw Angel breathe, and I mean really breathe because he had to, I realized the difference. I sort of understood the fear that goes along with that mortality. There’s a whole level of love and commitment there, when the person you love and have committed to is mortal. I wouldn’t want to watch Spike grow old and die.” Buffy murmured. “Not unless I was growing old and dying with him.”

“So what are you going to do?” Willow asked, reaching out and taking Buffy’s hand in hers.

Their eyes met.

“I have no freaking clue.”

“We’ll figure something out. There’s got to be a solution.”